The Spanish Mother. A novel

Front matter

In 3 Vols. MARRIED. By MRS. C. J. NEWBY, Author of "Wondrous Strange," "Kate Kennedy," "Common Sense," &c. " Constructed on Mrs . Newby's laudable system of discarding sen sationalism." — Athenæum. "A lively story smartly told." — Morning Advertiser. " We compliment Mrs. Newby on her story. It is well told ; the characters are boldly and truthftilly sketched, and the lesson taught an excellent one." — Liverpool Albion. " It will be found both instructive and interesting."— Observer. "'Married' must be classed amongst the best of novels. The authoress writes to please as well as improve readers, and admirably she does both." — Messenger. " In endeavouring to raise the tone of thought, we believe Mrs. Newby to be doing a great deal of good. This is the kind of instruc tion the world wants, and our author has taken her acknowledged place among the purest and best teachers ofthe day." — Brighton Examiner.

"Mrs. Newby's novels are pure in tone and intention ; interesting and well written." — Now-a-Days. " Pleasantly written."— John Bull. "We heartily commend it as worthy of careful reading, and sure to bear good fruit." — Standard. "The writer of 'Kate Kennedy' may always be trusted, and in ' Married ' she exhibits in a very high degree some of tho very best qualities of her craft." — Manchester Guardian. LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. The most remarkable book that has been given to the public for many years will be publisher! early in the autumn. "THE AUTO BIOGRAPHY OP EDW VRD WORTLEY MONTAGU," the only sou of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whose career was, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary of any woman in the annals of Eng land during the last two hundred years. The autobiography intro duces Kings and Princes — Politicians and Poets —Men of Law aud Men of Letters.

In fact it will give life-like portraits of dead men and women, amongst whom will be found— George the Second and Frederick, Prince of Wales ; Lady Mary Wortley Montagu ; Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough ; the Earl of Chesterfield ; Walpole ; Field ing ; Colly Cibber ; Pope, whose absurd love adventure with Lady Mary is described at length; Howard, Earl of Suffolk; Savage; Lord Lyttleton ; Bully Rooke ; Lord Scarborough ; Molly Segrave ; Duchess of Manchester ; Dr. Young ; Lady Vane ; Lord Patmore and his wife, the Duchess of Leeds; Kitty Hyde, afterwards Duchess of Queensbury ; Lady Betty Molyneux ; Lady Fanuy Shirley ; Wind ham ; Pulteuey ; Lady Bolingbroke ; Dodington ; Lady Archibald Hamilton; S;r William Yonge; Tom Warrin^ton ; Hogarth; Con greve; Gay ; Prior ; Fox, afterwards the celebrated Lord Holland ; Lord Hervey; the Duke of Kingston ; Bishop Burnett; Richard Steele ; Lady Bella Bentinck ; the Profligate Duke of Wharton, &c, &c. — Evening Post.

Chapter I. The Duke Of Chandos Proposes

The Herberts went to all the best balls, concerts, and various gay doings ofthe season. Both girls had their share of admiration and notice ; both were well dressed to a certain degree, but Florence always more expensively, with more attention to what suited her, and what was most popular as the fashion of VOL. II. B the day. If anyone introduced an eligible or handsome partner to Miss Herbert, she was expected at once to introduce her cousin Florence, and scarcely dared accept a partner unless Florence already had one. " So selfish," Lady Herbert would turn and say in her hearing to Florence if she did, " availing herself of her superior position, as Miss Herbert, to take the men away from you, it's so inconsiderate of her in her state of health to dance so incessantly." People very soon began to talk and say that the Duke of Chandos was paying attention to Miss Herbert, and a very nice match it would be, and so on.

When Lady Herbert was asked, she ex pressed surprise at their thinking of such a thing. " That little insignificant child attract the handsome Duke of Chandos ? Oh, how absurd !" It was true Lady Herbert tried to make Pose look as insignificant as possible, for she always dressed her in plain white, with very little colour or ornament, under the pretext that when a girl looked delicate, too much dress or colour made her look more so. However, the attentions of the Duke were in earnest, and at the last ball of the season he proposed. They had been dancing together, then went into one of the drawing-rooms in search of rest, air, and quiet. At last, after they had been talking there a little while, Rose said — "Now, please, I must return to mamma, she will be angry unless Florence has a partner, and she has someone else to talk to." b " Oh, Miss Herbert," said the Duke, " five minutes more.

Answer me one question. You must have guessed my love long since ; may I ask your father for your hand ?" " No, no ! pray don't. Oh ! I can't bear it — indeed I can't ! I mustn't marry you — don't ask me," and she burst into tears. The Duke could not at all understand all this ; fortunately the ball was thinning, the Herberts had staid unusually late, because it was their last ball for the season, and so very few people lingered in these rooms. After recovering herself a little, Rose made him understand that she was said to be very delicate and in bad health, and that she could not live to be twenty-two, that her mamma said under these circumstances she ought not to marry. " How could she, indeed, entail anxiety or sickness on one she loved so truly as she owned she did him." Of course, like a true lover, he would not hear of such reasons, but was content that she owned she loved him.

He asked her if she would wait and trust him, and if he claimed her the day she was twenty-two, would she be his wife. Yes, indeed, she faithfully and willingly agreed, though she added, with a deep sigh — " I must not expect such happiness, I am not destined to enjoy it." Then she added one peremptory condition • he was to tell no one, he was to appear to give her up. She felt she could not bear to see him as an indifferent visitor to the house, and she said if Lady Herbert knew of her engagement she would not be able to stand the life she would lead, for Florence she thought had not had one proposal. All was agreed ; they exchanged rings and hearts. The Duke, who was not of age by two years, said his property did very well with out him ; he was anxious to see Australia and many other countries, and would occupy his time in travelling with her image before his eyes to cheer him, the possession of her to look forward to.

And so they returned to the chaperone. Dear, dear, what a farce it is ? how little does the chaperone know what has passed, what has been said or agreed in these dances and promenades. Lord and Lady Herbert returned with their two young ladies to Thornbury ; they filled their house for the races, they attended the county ball, they encouraged society and gaiety in every way, and yet the neighbours remarked — " It is curious we don't hear of either ofthe girls being engaged. They reported the Duke of Chandos for one of them, but of course that was only gossip. We don't hear any more of it, and Lady Herbert is not the person to let a Duke slip through her fingers when once she had a chance." Poor Rose continued to be told how delicate she was. One day, she got a cold like any other girl, but the cough lingered on as they often will, and Lady Herbert made so much of it, and so often talked of their having probably to spend the winter in the Isle of Wight, at Ventnor, or somewhere ofthe kind, that it became a chronic nervous cough, and prevented her sleeping at night.

She got depressed, and thoroughly persuaded they were right, she was soon to die. Her greatest consolation was to look at the ring the Duke had given her at the ball that night, telling her when he returned from his travels he should look for that to know if he might claim her promise, and if that were gone he should know he was forgotten. Oh! how she trea sured it. She knew, at least, one person loved her and thought of her. She had always corresponded with nurse Pringle from the day of her leaving, and now her letters were doubly precious, as they generally gave her one little word of comfort and encouragement from the Duke, but then again she would reproach herself. " What with this cough so much worse, I myself feeling so much weaker, everyone evidently struck with the change — my sleep disturbed, everyone show ing anxiety.

What business have I to think of marrying? Voluntarily exposing one I pretend to love to anxiety, care, and sickness, no, no, impossible, it is too selfish ;" then she would burst into tears and sob as if to break her heart, and determine at once to make nurse break the news to him and say he must give her up. She was now constantly left at home when Lord and Lady Herbert and Florence visited or went to balls. They said it was madness to expose her to hot rooms. It all seemed so kind and affectionate, poor child ! how should she see through it ? It may seem curious the Duke should be so easily satisfied to remain quiescent, and say nothing of his love, not make his claim to Rose's hand, but we must say he also made his condition. He had seen and known enough of Rose's position with Lady Herbert to understand b5 her conduct and her wish that he should not come forward.

But he told Rose she must name some one from whom he could hear news of her, and perhaps if he felt very lonely, now and then a few lines, and through the same source she should always hear of him and be assured of his love and constancy. No one seemed so well adapted to fill this post as nurse Pringle — she lived in London, was devoted to Rose, and would do anything she asked. " Only, you remember," said Rose, " you are not to believe more than a quarter what nurse tells you of my hardships at home. She thinks I'm made of something awfully fragile and precious." This was understood and agreed. The commission was explained to nurse next day, and the only danger of her telling was that her delight at the prospect of her darling being a real live Duchess, was so great it was terribly hard work not to boast.

And so the Duke went abroad, leaving a long letter for Rose with Nurse Pringle, and all sorts of cautions of secresy and faithfulness. How long the secret would be kept was very doubtful, for on that eventful evening a pair of very sharp eyes, and not very honest ones, were watching Rose, and the owner knew exactly how long she sat out as they call it, with the Duke, and perhaps overheard part of the conversation ; at all events the ears did their best to rival the eyes in the perform ance of what was decreed as their duty for the evening. Florence Gonzales was a disappointed and jealous girl that night, and as such she returned to Thornbury and determined the Duke should not be asked to any of the parties, and everything the least amiable should be done to him. She was not quite clever enough, she baited her trap in exactly the way her enemy wished.

Ah! that not clever enough, how many, especially women, are ruined by it. I say women, because men so seldom take the trouble to try and be clever, unless they really are so, and then, of course, they have a good chance of success in their schemes; but women will imagine they can outwit each other, and are always falling into the little hidden holes they dig for themselves. Being in a hole is considered a vulgar and slang expression I believe. I am very sorry if in the re-generation of the next lot of young ladies and young gentlemen that people say must be managed somehow, or at the present rate they will soon be intolerable, these descriptive slang words are to be abolished. What can half as well explain, having, after much labour and trouble upon a subject, discovered it is a complete blunder, as the word hole, and still more if you find you have put your own foot bodily into the hole, as is often the case.

Now Florence Gonzales was evidently, from her name, a foreigner, so perhaps she did not appreciate English slang; but at all events she could appreciate cunning, and took a large portion of it to her own share, considering it all the time as legitimate play, I believe, as long as it seemed to answer her purpose.

Chapter II. An Arrival

Few parts of England are more interesting and less known, at least to English people, than Cornwall, and yet those that live there are certainly thoroughly English, and love their country with a truer love than can be found in any of the more popular parts of the country, where commerce and more inter course with strangers has made them perhaps more crafty, more ambitious, and more dis contented ; for that demon of society, social and public discontent, has no more certain origin than ambition, no more faithful hand maids than craftiness and cheating. The Cornwall man loves his country as the place of his birth, as a happy home, as a favoured land in its soil and its climate. The springs are as fine and warmer than the north of Italy, the soil richer and better tilled and cared for. In many parts the slate quarries and the peculiar clay used for some kinds of china, and only found in Cornwall, have brought so many strangers to the places that perhaps much of their originality and old fashioned peculiarities, as well as their peculiar characteristics, may have disappeared ; but the part of the country in which our story lies was a small fishing village on the coast, where all had remained so primitive that you could scarcely fancy yourself in England.

What is not an event in a village, especially one on the sea coast, where a wreck is the only sensation for months together, and the only stranger they ever see is a wandering pedlar with his wares to tantalise the girls, or a party of gipsies on their way to some great man's park to lay in wait in the lanes for the wounded game or the chance of trapping some rabbits, or, in fact, ready to pick up any trifle, for nothing comes amiss to a gipsy's pocket or his stock pot. Such was the village of Craney, in Cornwall. It was most picturesque, though to the eyes of a Londoner it might seem quaint and be hind hand. Walking along the coast-guard's path on the high cliffs as you leave Devonshire, you seem far from every habitation ; the glorious sea below you and the bright blue sky above. There may you unmolested take time to medi tate on whatever is at that moment most per plexing you.

I have, in a translation of one of the classics, this truth : — " Thou solemn sea and solitary shore, best and most retired scene for contemplation, with how many noble thoughts have ye inspired me." And no one can pass these noble scenes of nature in Cornwall without feeling some spark of this enthusiasm. Then as you turn round the last corner of this cliff path you suddenly see below you a village, a strange assemblage of houses of all sorts of forms, or rather I should say, of cot tages and huts, formed into queer little streets, and with a quay backed by fishermen's huts, forming a curious contrast to the quays we are accustomed to see in English seaports. It is true no ship could land its passengers or its goods there, but this quay had been formed of the granite of the country by the inhabitants as a sort of fish-market.

Here on a Tuesday might be seen the whole ofthe population of this little village, for that was the day they had chosen for their market ; probably the choice had been made in years gone by, from some old superstition, for the people of Cornwall are remarkable for their superstitions. They keep up all the old tra ditions, and anyone interested in folk-lore cannot do better than visit some ofthe remote villages of Cornwall, and make love to the old cronies, who, sitting in the chimney corner patching the old clothes of the family, are looked upon by them all with the greatest reverence. They will entertain you whole evenings with the history of their old customs and the old Cornish superstitions. If you ask any child to show you the eon tents of his pocket the chances are it consists, besides the usual appendages of an old knife, bit of string and half-eaten apple, of a piece of mountain ash to ward off witchcraft, or a stone with a hole in it against want, or some Other such treasure.

Through the bounty of a rich maiden lady, whose property lay some twenty miles off, a church had been built and endowed for the benefit of the villagers, and it formed not a small part of the beauty of the scene from its graceful though simple architecture. A rail way station ten miles off had, within the last few years, sprung up, and tended perhaps to civilize those people. When one says civilize in such cases, it generally includes making many of them rogues, for they learn all the tricks of trade to enable them to make a good thing of sending their fish to market by rail ; they get news papers and letters more easily, they hoard up their spare money to buy dress they had never thought of before, or to take an excur sion ticket and see something of the world — whereas they had before never thought of any world worth seeing beyond their own little circle.

Yet ten miles is a good walk, even for a Cornish man, so their progress was slow. They still had all the kindly, hospitable feeling, that when a stranger did appear in want of food and shelter he was sure to find a welcome at every hearth — he or she was not watched as if a thief or policeman in disguise • — and when there was a wreck, though there might be some vultures amongst them, yet generally they thought more of saving life, and even of putting by any relics as the beau tiful tresses from some fair maiden's head, or the ring from a finger. In one corner of the vestry there was a cupboard carefully locked, and in charge of the sexton, in which any thing that might serve for a clue in future of the vessel, or from any dead body, was for mally deposited with date and circumstances belonging.

Iu the centre of the village was a house with a faded sign of a lion over the door, and the announcement of the Lion Hotel. It was a good sized place, and had, it was said by many of the villagers, done a very good business ; but about twenty years ago it had been abandoned. Many visitors travelling by easy stages, driving or on foot, had stopped there, and some spent a few weeks making excursions ; but things were altered now, railways had changed the routes, and two public houses with clean beds for single men and good accommodation for pedestrians were all that was required. There was a degree of awe attached to the house, no one would rent it; the landlord thought it unlucky either to pull it down or sell it, and there it stood alone and desolate. The children ran past in fear. The old people shook their heads and wondered who would ever be found to inhabit it.

The only thing that could be really collected of its last tenants amidst all the head shaking insinua tions and mysterious things supposed, was that an old man reported to be a miser, and possessing immense wealth, had disappeared when a visitor at their hotel, and no one ever knew how, or why, or where. Suspicion had been attached to the land lady, who was said to have appeared suddenly very handsomely dressed, and as if she pos sessed great riches. There was not sufficient cause to justify a trial, but everything was so suspicious at the inquiry that it was found impossible for the landlord and his wife to remain any longer at their post. They were hooted in the streets, avoided by all their neighbours, and the house declared to be haunted. Frightful stories were told too, according to gossip, by travellers who stopped there, and as they became fewer and fewer the house was at last ruined; the master and mistress disappeared one night.

Some pious people did say the clergyman drove them clean away with his admonitions, and his way of pointing at people. Now the event we referred to in the village at the beginning of our chapter was the arrival of a party of gipsies one evening — and a Sunday evening too — twenty years after. Mrs. Green, of the Lion, went away. The Lion remained just as she left it, still couchant, still in repose, the tint of his complexion was not so clear and roseate as it had once been (but red hair is no longer the rage), and the awe that surrounded his domain seemed to have preserved the harmless beast from the otherwise natural amount of missiles in the shape of stones, brickbats and catapults, it might have been expected to get. These gipsies were a large party, and had with them an old man who was ill, and who seemed somewhat of a burden to them.

He appeared not to be so fond of the out of doors life as a real gipsy should be, and in his illness pined for a comfortable room inside a house. Finding the Lion so invitingly empty, they sent one of the leading ones of the party to state their case to the bailiff of the landlord, who lived close by and obtained permission to lodge there if they pleased. Gipsies are always considered an uncanny suspicious lot, so no one was surprised at their choice, and the bailiff thought anybody inhabiting the house might do good. Great was the excitement therefore in the village, especially amongst the younger por tion of the population, when they saw pre parations made for inhabiting the lower part of the house which for so many years had been silent and deserted. The gipsies lighted VOL. II. c the kitchen fire, carried in a mattress and blankets, and presently carried in their invalid, who seemed to take new life as he found himself within four walls, and a chance of sleeping near a good fire.

They remained there a week or more, and though the old man seemed stronger and more reasonable than when they arrived, the neigh - bours, who were curious, sometimes over heard noisy arguments, as to the necessity of moving on, and he was always unwilling to do so. They gathered, from the scraps of con versation that fell to their share, that the gipsies were in some way indebted to this old man, and were afraid to contradict him. However, one morning it was reported that the gipsies and their van and goods had all left the village just before daybreak. One of the old gossips, more courageous or more curious than the rest, determined to satisfy herself. She started off to visit the Red Lion, and returned with the news that the old man only was left with his arm-chair and his mat tress, and his breakfast put out for him.

They had evidently drugged him the night before to secure quiet. He was, as usual, rather grumbly, but said he was glad they were gone ; they had left him all he wanted, his bed, his chair, and his grandchild, and he should stop where he was if they would but let him, and as he had only settled in the outside kitchen, and the best part of the house could still be kept locked ia charge of the bailiff, no objection was made. The bailiff, indeed, seemed half afraid to offend anyone belonging to such formidable people as gipsies they say become if they are offended. The grandchild was a boy of about seven, c who seemed very much superior to the usual class of vagrants, and was intelligent, active, and good-tempered, though totally uneducated in every way, and appearing as if he had been very severely dealt with ; he had a cowed, frightened manner when spoken to.

He told his friends in the village he was very fond of grandfather, but he was glad the others were all gone, they were rough, ugly, and cross, only he wished grandfather would go back to the nice big house where he used to live, where he had a sister to play with. This little mystery that hung about them added to the feeling of kindness, and the inclination to assist them, which the villagers had shown the old man and boy ever since they had been left. Indeed, they both gained ground, and very soon the old man began to totter out to make his little purchases for the week, and presently he joined the others on Sunday morning, and took his place in church. The clergyman called to see him, and per suaded him to send the boy to school, where he proved so quick and sharp, that he was soon promoted from the village mistress to the clergyman's own class, and it was very evident to him that the child had at some time of his life lived in a very different position of life.

No information, however, could be extracted from the old man ; but that, indeed, such things were sad, and reverses in life were very trying, especially when caused by the sinful ness of your own children. This subject always seemed to upset him so much, that at last the Revd. Mr. George abstained from asking any more questions, and concluded the boy was the child of some unfortunate marriage or misdemeanour. Years went on, everyone seemed to have become accustomed to the visitors who had once caused such astonishment and curiosity. The good clergyman became so interested in the boy Robert, that he got him on the Westminster foundation, where he rose to the top of the school, and won the highest prizes, first scholarship, and he went in for a fellowship. Great was the rejoicing when Robert got a holiday and came home to cheer his grand father, who had now become older in the natural course of things, but remained hearty, and active enough to amuse himself in walk ing about.

He lived sometimes on the charity of his neighbours, but often gained a little by doing a bit of gardening, or selling the shells THE SPANISH MOTHER. he collected on the sea shore ; he was even ingenious in making them into little orna ments, which he then sold well. Whenever his grandchild came home, he seemed as if he had come into sudden wealth, so differently did he live, and the neighbours fancied he half starved himself between times to give his darling Robert such luxuries as the village afforded. Years flew by, time passed ; the grandchild who had been left with his old grandfather has grown up a fine, distinguished looking young man. He had by his own merits won his fellowship, and gone to Cambridge to enter holy orders at once. The old man gradually became more infirm ; the villagers had become quite attached to their somewhat eccentric neighbour, and he never wanted care or attention without finding it.

When THE SPANISH MOTHER. he got ill and fancied he was going to die, he raved terribly for his boy ; said he could not die till he had seen him and told him all. They tried to calm him, saying he must not disturb his studies. He would soon come back to him, they would write, and so on • but he grew more eager as each day passed, and his strength did not return. He told them they were wicked, they did not know the injustice they were committing ; Robert must be told the truth. He was constantly looking at a little parcel he kept under his pillow, and muttering to himself, " Yes, this will prove it — yes, this will set it right; this will make it up to him." The friends thought this parcel contained money, and as they had always fancied he hoarded money for the benefit of his grandchild, this corroborated it.

At last he got so much worse, that though they had often had alarms about him before and he had got well again, they thought now very badly of him, and to calm and comfort him, they sent for the clergyman. By the time he came, the poor old man was almost sinking, and had scarcely strength to do more than give him the pre cious packet, telling him no one but Robert must on any account open it, and according to the directions written outside it, Robert was not to open it until he had taken orders and was in an independent position. When once he had committed his package to safe keeping, he seemed more satisfied, and being assured they had sent for Robert, he listened quietly to the consolations of prayer and quiet conversation that the clergyman gave him. c THE SPANISH MOTHER. He watched eagerly for every sound, and prayed God would spare him to see his boy once more.